


Purgatory

by nothingeverlost



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:21:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23572258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingeverlost/pseuds/nothingeverlost
Summary: It took a little longer for Benoit to figure it all out
Relationships: Benoit Blanc/Marta Cabrera
Comments: 2
Kudos: 65





	Purgatory

**Author's Note:**

> Cablanaca week prompt "Confession"

The outfit they gave her to wear was strangely similar to the scrubs she’d worn during her internship at the hospital. Now, though, it wasn’t her job to help anyone. It wasn’t her job to do anything at all but sit in a cell. She tapped her food nervously, looking down at her shoes. They were new; her own had been taken as evidence. She hadn’t even known that there was a drop of blood on them. Harlan’s blood. She’d killed the very person she’d been hired to take care of. A man she’d thought of as a friend.

“Cabrera, you’re wanted in the warden’s office.” It was only the fourth time she’d been out of her cell. Twice she’d been taken to the dining hall for food that was so bland she had a hard time eating. Once there had been an exercise yard; she’d stood in the corner and tried not to look at anyone.

“Thank you.” She followed the guard, looking down at her feet as she walked two steps behind her. She was going to have to find a way to get used to this place eventually, but right now it was too much. Too big, too loud, too frightening.

“Watson.” She recognized his shoes before she processed his voice. She frowned but didn’t look up until he took a step closer and lowered his voice. “Marta.”

“What are you doing here?” Her mother hadn’t been allowed to visit yet. Marta dreaded that day, but having him see her here was almost as bad. He’d been kind to her. Trusted her. Protected her. He’d even tried to convince them not to arrest her, even after her confession.

“My job was to get to the center of this case and it wasn’t what it looked like, Marta. Your confession was like confetti on a stale donut; brightly colored and distracting but not a true representation of the whole. You didn’t kill Harlan Thrombey, and you know you didn’t kill Fran. You actually saved Harlan after Ransom attempted to kill him, and Fran was collateral. Ransom is responsible for everything.” Benoit Blanc paced the warden’s office excitedly. The warden sat behind his desk, very still and slightly annoyed-looking.

“I don’t understand. I gave Harlan the wrong dose.” She’d replayed the scene in her head a hundred times. The injection, the label, fleeing the room and returning to find Harlan…

She didn’t want to think about that.

“You didn’t. That’s why Fran was killed; she knew the truth. The autopsy came back clean. There was no overdose. You must have switched back the bottles.” He gestured with his hand, perhaps meaning to mime shaking a bottle, but all Marta saw was the wince.

“What’s wrong?” She knew what pain looked like.

“Nothing, just a slight disagreement with Ransom over the manner of his arrest. He was none too keen on the idea of coming quietly.” Benoit shrugged and winced again, this time his face going a little whiter.

“He had a gun?” She stepped forward, everything else forgotten as she touched her fingertips to his shoulder. She could feel the padding of bandages below.

“Nothing so troublesome as that. It’s just a slight cut; barely needed any stitches.” 

“I guess he did know the difference between a stage prop and the real thing,” she muttered to herself. She’d never been comfortable with some many knives being around the house. Not all of them were props. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, unless it’s for confessing too soon and not letting me crack the case soon enough to keep you from having to experience this.” He smiled at her, but his eyes were sad. “I wanted to be the one to come tell you that it’s over. You can come home.”

“I can leave now?” She wondered if she’d be waking up soon and find this was all a dream.

“Yes ma’am. And good timing too, because I could use a kind nurse to give a look at my arm. I’m afraid I might have pulled a bit at my stitches.”


End file.
